| Friday Flash Fiction |
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    Here are some of his stories.    Given that Mr Freeman has bombarded FFF with over 60 communications in the few months since demanding that we never contact him again, this is clear cyberstalking. UK Law is quite clear here.  Please just go away.
I'm Sick.
Tired and sick. Three poems to write before Monday, 3000 words due next week. 800 to 1000 words, when is it due? What is the name of that competition? My poor head! It's my grandson's birthday, and I promised curtains. I have no time to be ill. I take a deep breath, a hot cuppa and slowly a timetable appears. Curtains and poems, story plans and tissues, bed and my favorite pen. Tablets and blanket, a cuddle with the cats, all's right with the world. Still there's something missing. Oh God, it's Friday. “But you don’t understand!” Ronny pleaded. “I’d be an asset to the team. I HAVE to join!”
“And what professional baseball experience do you have?” the team G.M. asked, skeptical. “Well ... none. But I’ve played recreationally for years and could offer so much.” Ronny begged, desperate for a chance. The G.M. shook his head. “Sorry. Not good enough.” Ronny seethed. His inch-long claws and his third and fourth eyes became visible. “Did I mention I’m from Planet Zeldon and could destroy your organization?” The G.M.’s eyes widened. “Let’s not decide anything too quickly. I’m sure an arrangement could be made.” 'It's complicated,' she said, but that was just an excuse – a way to absolve herself of all blame – like she always did.
All her fault and nothing to do with me, but Emma always did have a talent for twisting the truth or at lease her version of it. Her blue eyes wide, she swore that Adam was just a friend but I followed them that day and watched the act of betrayal as marriage vows turned to ashes. My heart shattered like glass, into a thousand pieces and each one called her a liar as I pulled the trigger. The first time my girlfriend Gwen burst into flames it surprised both of us. Like a living torch, she blazed hot and yellow-orange, but completely unharmed. So weird, but cool once we got used to it, and when she could control it. One hand flaming gave light to our late-night walks, or to quickly make s’mores or hot dogs at the beach. And add warmth to cool autumn nights. But then, when she once burned really bright and intense, firemen arrived and put her out with suppressing foam which suffocated her. A sad ending to our burning love.
They were waiting for the train
Not a word had been spoken And yet they knew there was significance to their waiting Circumstances had placed them here as much as led them on It was their future, their hopes, their dreams, their everything The train would take them home Jenny was angry today. One year since lung cancer took her father, and it still hurts like hell.
Making her angrier was seeing people smoke in public. Selfish idiots! Men, women, even teenagers. All slowly destroying many lives. Driving home, she saw an older man sitting on a bench, smoking. She's never lashed out before, but today's different. She pulled over and yelled, "Sir, those stupid things are killing you!" He ignored her. At home, she cried. Her grief, people, everything; it was too much. Trembling, she went into her desk for her own stupid things. At least, she's ashamed. I’m sorry, forced out of a throat still raw from last night’s cigarettes.
You rest your head against the cold radiator, knees to chin. You’re bundled up in the dressing gown you only wear when you're ill. I'm sorry, you say again, but you flaunt the marks he left on your neck that replace mine underneath. You tell me how you left him with your number, scrawled in lipstick on his forearm like you seen in that film the other night. I think of the marks you left on him and imagine them as bruises. He kissed her neck, taking in the fragrance. Their love routine progressed expertly for they’ve been there many times. She, a twenty-something single gal. He, a sixty-year-old empty-nester.
His wife had no idea of the goings-on. He wondered, though, if she was able to read his mind. “More coffee, dear?” she piped while holding the carafe. He returned to the woman of his dreams. Gave her quality time until another incident caused an interruption. “What would you like to do today?” his wife asked. Breakfast over, he put fantasizing of the other woman on hold. Edgar sat staring at the blank page for over an hour. What should he write about? Should he delve deep into his imagination or draw from personal experiences? Should he avoid politics and religion?
He quickly grabbed a pen and paper and began writing furiously. “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered…” Suddenly, a large black bird swooped through the open window and perched on the windowsill. Upset at the interruption, Edgar threw a large book at the bird, causing it to shriek loudly, at which point a rapping came at his chamber door. “Mr. Poe, are you okay?” The web-photo sent a chill through Howard Cohen: adult children of the strongman, accompanying him on a foreign trip in taxpayers’ money, were attending a lavish party in dazzling outfits and glorious smiles. He suddenly remembered a historic photo in a Berlin museum: a group of smiling and singing SS-youths who held jobs in the Auschwitz death-camps was enjoying weekend activities in a campsite. Howard himself survived Auschwitz by maintaining the major crematorium functioning round-the-clock.
Recently Howard learned about secretly separated migrant children, detained at US-border prison-camps denying life-sustaining facilities. However, citizens remain extremely busy in summer picnics and baseball. The pressure of the werewolf’s anger was like a raging sea, the fires of fury smouldering in his eyes.
The General coughed again and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. ‘Your friends.’ he said. ‘Whatever they had planned is of no consequence, they’re dead.’ The werewolf roared, he was not a blood thirsty, mindless beast, he was a protector of people and did not kill at random. He raised his leg and slammed his foot down onto the General’s head, smashing his skull like an eggshell, killing him instantly. He was an Alpha, the most protective of all. Ollie woke up at midnight and snuck downstairs to the kitchen. He got a stepstool and opened the cupboard door.
He snatched a couple of cupcakes and sat on the sofa eating them in the dark, making sure to lick off the icing before tossing the wrappers behind the couch. The next night, Ollie sneaked to the kitchen again. This time there were locks on the cupboards. Ollie returned to bed, disappointed. The next morning, Ollie looked through his mother’s purse and found the keys to the locks. He put them back and smiled with his two front teeth missing. While standing in line against the wall at a church supper, I found myself next to a painting entitled "Jesus Laughing." It struck me that I could not recall ever seeing a picture of Jesus that was not solemn. And believe me, having been raised in the Bible Belt, I have seen lots of pictures of Jesus! This one showed Jesus with his head thrown back and his mouth wide open, enjoying something wonderfully funny—perhaps a joke from one of his disciples.
I wonder what Jesus would find to laugh at if he set foot on Planet Earth today. "Ever played Pooh-sticks?" said Jay to his equally bored border guard Mike. "Pooh-sticks? What the – ?" Mike asked. "That game English kids play. From, y'know, Winnie-the-Pooh, Christopher Robin and so on." Mike was unimpressed. "Never heard of it. So?" "The bear and the pig watch sticks floating down river, guessing which one reaches the other side first." "That's it?" Jay shrugged. "Passes the time." Jay chose a big one floating in the water; Mike, a smaller one nearby. They reached the bank simultaneously. "Dead heat!" Mike said, animated. "OK, showtime," Jay said. "I'll fish them out, you fetch the body-bags."  (Photo: AP/Julia le Duc) "Hurry, we need to find a table," Minnie said.
"Hold up. My legs are killing me." Emma bent a knee, with hands-on thigh, she stretched. “That’s better.” "Over there." Minnie pointed, then grabbed Emma's hand. They rushed towards a window and gazed onto a darkening garden lit with twinkling lights. "Let’s sit before somebody takes our spot." Pulling a chair from the table, Emma plopped. Like a shitake mushroom, her derrière flattened spilling over the seat. "Here comes that good looking bus driver. I hope he comes to our table," Minnie said. He sailed past. "I hope he chokes." "I never see that woman with the beige leather coat anymore on the bus," stated Jack.
"She's been taken away, if you know what I mean," replied Tom who knew everything about the village. "She was always on the mobile, ranting and raving, a teacher wasn't she?" "Not for many a year. She was not actually on the phone but conversing with imaginary people, not enough to be locked up for but then she had a psychotic episode." Jack pictured her in a psychiatric unit speaking to ghosts, knowing we are all one step away from insanity. It was the black veil that terrified Darius. It rested on the woman’s face; slowly rising and falling. A long black dress flowed around her as she stood in the cabin doorway.
Darius froze in place. In the next room, Bernadice was asleep and he couldn’t call out to her. The woman walked into the room and stopped in the center. Snow began to pile up on the floor from the open door. Darius backed away from her in fear. The woman’s veil slowly rose to reveal a vacant face. Darius screamed out as the faceless woman moved toward him. Chelsea enters intensive care through automatic doors. It is the start of a new day for the intensivist. As she walks down a brightly lit hall, a cacophony of sounds strikes her eardrum while pungent odors tease her olfactory receptors.
A heart-wrenching cry suddenly pierces the air and sends shivers down the physician’s spine. A partially empty crash cart now stands idle outside a patient’s room. Chelsea displays a calm demeanor when she enters the room and offers emotional support to the grieving family. Her years of practice has taught her never to question the futility of it all. ‘We won’t be going to Disneyland this year.’
‘But you promised.’ Tina pouted and stamped her feet. ‘No tantrums, please, and don’t be selfish. Tommy will need the money for a special wheelchair after his operation.’ ‘Can we go next year?’ ‘That depends on your little brother.’ ‘It’s always about him.’ Tina ran into the garden and threw rocks at the birds. Later, she stared at Tommy. A tube stuck up his nose, and a bag of wee hung under the bed. Next time she would hold the pillow down for much longer. Hope kills us all. It is jagged, unreal flotsam, slipping through our hands.
Sinking, these black gulps of salt water consume us. Someone must come. We cannot be allowed to drown. Surely. Kick your legs, churn your arms, grit your teeth against the chill. Choose who you are as seaweed caresses your calves. There are no saviour’s hands that will lift us up. Not even our own. That’s not the warm embrace of love but hard physics, pinning us with disinterest. Its hand to our faces, pressing. Kick your legs, churn your arms, spit out the ocean until it drowns. 1950. Circled by soap bubbles, soft-cheeked, he giggles.
Technicians ignore the maternal marks on his back. 1969. As a youth, he projects, keen to banish memories of childhood roles. 1973. As a frock-coated idol, he is loved by lenses. Doors to studios and boudoirs swing open. 1975. In the sun’s full glare, he is linked with many, though truly known by few. 1989. Divorces and addictions bite. Taking character parts, he hunts for a hit. 1999. All but forgotten, alone on small stages, he sits, divulging dissipations to faithful fans. 2019. Unpredicted, he reconnects, basking in one last spotlight. Near dawn a rooster crowed.
“Mary died,” the midwife said, “I couldn’t save her, but you have been blessed with a baby boy.” John pounded the table with his fist and with a heave, overturned it. The cup and saucer clattered to the floor while the wails and cries of an infant traveled from the other side of a closed door. “God why did you take her?” he keened. The midwife returned from the other room and placed the tiny child into his arms. John prayed the baby would die. His life would be worthless without Mary. Damn the child. Fifteen minutes … of economics … to go. Suzan didn’t see how she could go through another fifteen minutes. Now fourteen. Glancing around the lecture hall she appraised the number of attentive students. Something about macro and micro. And a play on the two words that elicited some laughter. Ten minutes. Then Q1 and Q2. Five minutes. A flourish with more laughter. Some applause. A young woman approached. “Professor Suzan, that was a brilliant lecture. I’m thinking of changing my major to economics.” Suzan thought of a similar situation from years ago. “Stay with your first love,” she replied.
Ben loved teaching, and his students loved him.
Over time, Ben developed a knack for administration too. Eventually, he became dean of his college, then provost of the university, then its president. But the endless politics became too much for Ben. He tried to get a teaching job, but he’d been out of the classroom too long. So he left and moved away. He got a job on a road crew, directing traffic. He loved helping people. He loved the simplicity. Soon, Ben was offered a promotion to crew chief. “No, thanks,” he said, smiling and waving to a driver. |
